


Baby, I Think I'm Capsizin'

by isaac richard (isaacrichard)



Category: Fight Club (1999)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood As Lube, Crossdressing, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Feminization, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, dont make your partner cry kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacrichard/pseuds/isaac%20richard
Summary: The Narrator gives himself over to Tyler - not for the first time, or the last.
Relationships: Tyler Durden/Narrator
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i don't write first person, as i feel it's limiting. i don't like it as a writer - just not my style. 
> 
> and yet.  
> i am jack's glaring hypocrisy  
> (thanks for reading!)
> 
> title from sexual healing by marvin gaye

Let’s just preface the entire thing with this: I know Tyler isn’t real.

Or more accurately, I know I made him up. We can get into an argument about the nature of reality, but I know, to everyone else, Tyler Durden doesn’t exist. Maybe it’s even me who is Tyler – I’m unclear on the nature of my own existence, too.

But that’s not what this is about. I just figured I’d start with the surprising factoid that I am not entirely batshit. Tyler is real to me and no one else – and that’s the nature of my psychological problems. It’s also why we work.

“I have something for you,” Tyler says, leaning over, stealing my reading light. He smells like cigarettes and oils, like he’d been making soap. His hands are soft for the same reason.

I’m hard before he’s finished his sentence, uncomfortable in my thigh-hugging jeans. He knows this, and grins wolfishly.

I am Jack’s desire to be eaten.

“Yeah?” I feign nonchalance when, in fact, I’m dying for whatever he has to give me. Even if he takes me out back and beats the ever-loving shit out of me, I’ll take it. I’ll enjoy the hell out of it.

He touches my cheek. I so rarely get any kind of affection from him, I lap it up, closing my eyes.

“You’re gonna play nice?” he drawls, running his thumb up and down the side of my face. These hands have beaten men to pulp, and my eyes remain closed. Tyler won’t hurt me. Not yet.

“You play nice, you get a treat. Are you going to listen?”

I make some kind of affirmative sound, but that’s not enough for Tyler. His fingers creep from my face into my hair, and he gives me a tug. It doesn’t hurt – not in the grand scheme of pain, and all – but it has the desired effect of coaxing a whine out of me.

“Yes,” I gasp. I’ll do anything for his approval. “Yes, Tyler.”

He resumes gently caressing my cheek. “Good.”

I pretend not to see the newly punched hole in Tyler’s wall. I pretend not to notice the leaks that have gotten worse. I pretend not to notice the used condom in the corner. I close my eyes again.

Tyler bites at my ear, his teeth like needles. I don’t know how much noise I’m allowed to make, so I silently flex and unflex my hands as an outlet. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs.

I am _not_ pretty. I’m not even attractive for a man. I’m short and pissed-off looking, and that’s no secret. But the words put me in some kind of psycho-sexual trance, as they are intended to. I’ll be pretty for Tyler.

He kisses my lips, hard, fingers no doubt leaving bruises on the line of my jaw. I do not kiss back: I am Tyler’s to use.

This is probably supremely messing me up, to be fucked like a warm hole with no romantic attachments. But then again, the world is so fucked, what’s one more in the pile?

“That’s right,” Tyler purrs. He knows what I’m thinking, this has been well established by now. “Let go, pretty girl.”

I am Jack’s neglected erection.

I couldn’t tell you why Tyler’s being so sweet, and I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I can remember this later, when he’s fucking me dry over our soap-making table, screaming atrocities that only stand to make me leak harder.

My mind is wandering. Tyler slaps me, and it’s a relief. A clarity.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and he kisses me again. I open up for this one, and he tastes of copper – even though there is no sign of new blood. I think bruised and coppery might be his default state.

“Stay in the moment,” he warns, brandishing a hand.

I am Jack’s overwhelming desire to be good.

Tyler’s gift, as it turns out, is a dress of Marla’s. I don’t know what to do when he puts it in my hands – I’m at a loss. Where did he even get it? Did she let him borrow it? What kind of excuse did he give?

“Don’t worry about it,” he growls. His tone drops, and suddenly it’s sweet, again, though the daggers are not far removed.

“Now think, sweetheart – what do good girls do with dresses?”

_They put them on._

“Right,” Tyler says. He does not leave, or step back, or give me space.

I’m given no other instruction than that, as he watches me. The dress is ugly – Marla has a strange sense of fashion – but I’m so hard in my tighty-whities I’m practically going to burst out of them.

I am Jack’s deepest, darkest fantasies.

I take off my shirt. It’s always cold and wet in our place, and my nipples could cut glass. Tyler looks like he wants to touch – but he remains stoic, with his arms crossed. His eyes take me in, instead of his hands. We both know I may as well be naked already, as Tyler Durden has already remade me from the inside out. There is nothing I can hide from him anymore.

He continues to watch, and I’m tempted to pull the dress over my legs and remove my pants afterward, not getting all the way naked in the process. But I’m not stupid. I know what Tyler wants.

I am Jack’s performance anxiety.

It’s not a strip tease, exactly. More like cheesy porn without the screen. I know enough to sense Tyler is getting frustrated – he wants to fuck me, now – but he remains unmoved as I remove all my clothing for him. I am completely naked, erection at attention in front of me, and though my face is burning, I don’t try to cover myself up in any way.

Tyler is fully clothed. He appraises me, like I’m up for auction, and nods.

“Put the dress on,” he murmurs. “Now.”

The _now_ isn’t necessary – I race to comply. The material of the dress is almost silk – but feels too cheap to be the real thing. It hangs at my knees and falls from my shoulders – I have no breasts to fill it out. It hugs my ass, though, and I wonder how similar my figure is to Marla’s.

“Spin.”

For some reason, this is the request that gets me. I choke. “What?”

“ _Spin.”_ He makes the motion with his hand. I don’t ask again.

I spin. It’s the strangest feeling of my life – I have never spun around in a dress before. The material fluffs up around my legs, and I shiver with the cold air. When I stop, the world continues to go. I think I might throw up.

I am Jack’s disoriented mental state.

I’ve started crying, at some point. I just want him to fuck me and get it over with – I’m tired of this game.

“Don’t cry, pretty girl,” he coos, and I’m so _pissed,_ I want to scream and cry and throw a tantrum like I’m six years old. I do none of those things – I wait for his next move, with tears streaming down my cheeks. I wonder if getting me enraged was the name of the game.

“You’ve been so good,” Tyler declares, circling me like a shark. He tugs me into his arms by the dress's arm straps.

I deflate immediately, deeply satisfied. Even if I don’t get fucked, that was it. That was my climax, what I’m in this for. Tyler Durden to tell me I’ve been good.

“Tyler,” I sob, pitched and feminine. He seems to like it, so I do it again. Tyler, Tyler, Tyler.

“So good,” he repeats, and I’m his.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didn't expect to add to this, but... this dynamic is so fucked im weirdly obsessed with it

If I thought the dress was the end of it, I was sorely mistaken.

Tyler Durden does not let up. Tyler Durden picks at scabbed wounds, just to see them bleed.

I wake up from the doze I’d managed to two fingers in my ass. No permission, just intrusion – and a welcome one, at that. I don’t sleep well – call it some symptom of whatever brand of crazy Tyler is. I sit up at night, and instead of sleep, I think about the crazy my life has become.

All of this is crazy, really – fight club, this house, _Marla –_

“Don’t think about her,” Tyler snips. I can’t see him, as the electric lights are shot again, and dawn hasn’t broken. I just hear him – smell him, like sweat, and copper, and always, always soap. Not just because he spends most of his time making it – and making up lye treatments for me, for when I misbehave – but because he _bathes,_ bathes like a 14-year-old girl. He luxuriates.

For how nasty this house is – for how nasty we are – Tyler never really smells bad. It’s a talent, I think.

Tyler licks his lips – I can hear him do it. “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses. “Who cares!”

I blush into the dark. _Sorry, Tyler._

Because Tyler knows what’s good for me, Tyler knows what I need. His fingers crook inside of me and I whine, clawing at his back, leaving angry red lines I wish I could properly see.

“You like that, baby girl?” Tyler mutters, pure filth without a filter.

I'll be completely honest: there's little finesse. It's not what one would call "good" sex. There's really nothing sexy about it: we're just grunting, lust-crazed animals. Monkeys screaming in the mud.

But, dear Jesus, it's incredible.

And Tyler – Tyler's gone like this, watching me, touching me – and touching himself. He might cum before I do. He slaps my ass, as well as he can at that angle, and a cut gushes open – and in the pain of that sensation, several pieces click for me.

There is a knife by my feet – I can feel the metal of it. Tyler’s knife, or one of the Project kids’.

There is a cut under my left asscheek that hadn’t been there when I went to bed, and trust me, I am well aware how numerous my scars are. This is new, fresh. It _hadn’t_ been there before I fell asleep.

Tyler is fingering me, and for once, it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t so much as sting. He’s well lubricated. The in and out is swift and slick –

With my blood.

All of these things slot neatly together in the pain of the cut, and honestly, I nearly blow my load then and there.

“Enjoy the pain,” Tyler is muttering. “Revel in it, baby. It’s the one thing that’s real.”

_Are you? Is this? Do I care?_

Tyler plants a bruising kiss on my lips, and I return it, wet and warm and willing, fumbling for the heat of him. Something slick against my thigh – my dick, or his?

“What time is it?” I ask, because that’s what people ask other people, right?

Tyler is not people. I don’t even think Tyler’s human.

He slaps me, acute and sharp, because that’s his favorite form of punishment these days. It goes with the whole _girl_ thing – which I’ve yet to wrap my head around. But the fact remains; girls don’t get _punched._ Girls get an educational _slap._

I wonder where the line between fetish and sexism is. We surely must have crossed it a while ago.

“Sorry, Tyler, sorry,” I mutter, if only because I know he likes it. He likes me debauched, and he likes the apologies. He likes to think he’s always right, and in his defense, he usually is – when it comes to fucking me silly.

He’s on top of me, prep work apparently done, and I just… open up for him. I don’t belong to me like this. I belong, totally and completely, to Tyler Durden.

I am Jack’s burning desire to be owned.

“Stop thinking about it, sweetheart,” he commands, and then he’s inside me, lined up and pushed in in one fell swoop. I don’t ask for warnings anymore.

Tyler Durden fucks like the world is ending. Tyler Durden fucks like he’s going off to war and you’re the last fuckhole in a thirty-mile radius. Tyler Durden fucks like a nightmare, like a dream, and all I want or will ever want is for him to crack me open like this.

Fighting or fucking? What’s the difference, really? 

_Where you put your hands,_ is Tyler’s short reply. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to my thoughts being peeped on.

He spits in my hole, and God, even just that sentence makes me want to run and hide. But that’s what he does, and I’m glad I can’t see the spitty-cummy-bloody mess oozing out of me. I can feel it, though. It shouldn’t feel so good.

Tyler Durden does not linger. He fucks me, I come, he comes. He leaves me breathless on my disgusting mattress, boneless, all these bodily-fucking-fluids drying on the inside of my thighs and crease of my ass.

No cleanup. He’ll fuck me in the bath, but he won’t toss me a washcloth.

I am Jack’s unfortunate need for intimacy.

“Goodnight, baby girl,” he spares me, and I give him a half-hearted wave. He’s laughing as he returns to his own room – I can hear his footsteps on the stairs, shaking the frame of the building.

It’s falling apart, and so am I.

I am Tyler Durden’s –

I am Tyler Durden’s.

I sleep like the dead.


End file.
